September

Now every day the bracken browner grows,
Even the purple stars
Of clematis, that shone about the bars,
Grow browner; and the little autumn rose
Dons, for her rosy gown.
Sad weeds of brown.

Now falls the eve; and ere the morning sun,
Many a flower her sweet life will have lost.
Slain by the bitter frost,
Who slays the butterflies also, one by one;
The tiny beasts
That go about their business and their feasts.